Somehow I Wasn't Adding Up Right Anymore.

It's Funny, For A Long Time I Would Go Watermelon-red And Deny That I Was A Magical Realist. It Felt Imprecise To Me, A Misrepresentation.

When I Was Younger I Used To Lock Myself In The Bathroom And Read In The Dry Tub. I Was Also A Fan Of The 'shoe Closet.' Reading Felt Thrilling And Illicit And Deeply Private To Me, And I Felt Vulnerable Doing It In Public.

You Don't Want People To Think You're Just Writing Stories For Children About A Pig In A Tutu.

I Swim With All My Strength. No Superhuman Surge, Or Pony Heroics; It's Just Me At My Most Desperate.

Hopes Were Wallflowers. Hopes Hugged The Perimeter Of A Dance Floor In Your Brain, Tugging At Their Party Lace, All Perfume And Hems And Doomed Expectation. They Fanned Their Dance Cards, These Guests That Pressed Against The Walls Of Your Heart.